


Under Unfamiliar Skies

by Isis



Category: Dragon Age: Origins, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Eluvians, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Language Barrier, So much worldbuilding, The Taint, Worldbuilding, Zevran Arainai Flirts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-27 23:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16229246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: Geralt goes through a portal in an elven ruin in Toussaint, and comes out in Ferelden.





	Under Unfamiliar Skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



> This is set within the Witcher 3 "Blood and Wine" DLC and Dragon Age: Origins (Dalish origin). There are references to both Witcher 2 and Witcher 3, and to Dragon Age 2 and a few minor elements from Inquisition, though there are no spoilers for the latter DA games (other than one DA2 point which is also in an optional DAO quest) or for the storylines of the Witcher games.

The kikimore warriors advanced, and Geralt backed down the stairs. “Damn, you’re ugly,” he muttered as he slashed at the closest one with his silver sword. The tip connected, and it jumped back, hissing. Did a little damage, anyway, thanks to the insectoid oil he’d had the foresight to coat the blade with before venturing into this ruin in the wilds at the edge of Toussaint. 

The injured kikimore must have given off some kind of pheromone signal, because as it fell back the others surged, and Geralt had to back down another step. There were more than he had first thought, all jostling each other to get close to him. He dodged a stream of the venom they spat, then a slash from an armored foreclaw. His sword whirled. Another venomous stream connected with his left gauntlet, which sizzled and melted. He felt the acid touch on his skin, the pulsing of his blood as the poison entered his bloodstream.

 _Can’t take many more hits_ , he thought, and backed down a few more steps.

The stairway above him was filled with angry, spitting kikimores. Another acid splash hit him on the side of his neck, and his vision went red. _Not good._ He threw up Quen to protect himself, but that would only last a short time. A fiery blast of Igni made them retreat long enough that he could toss down a dose of Golden Oriole to clear his blood of the effects of the kikimore venom. His vision returned to normal, but what he saw almost made him wish he couldn’t see a thing. 

Kikimores from wall to wall of the narrow stairway, shoulder to shoulder, crawling over the burned bodies of their comrades. More crowded in behind them. Too many. Igni wasn’t powerful enough to get more than the front line. He groped in his bag. Grapeshot, that would do it.

He tossed a bomb into the waving mass of appendages, then another. Then he ran down the stairs, and when the shock wave hit, it tossed him down farther. He landed with a grunt. That was all right. A little damage was better than a lot of damage. He squinted into the smoke.

The good thing was, other than one crushed foreleg poking out from under a rock, he couldn’t see any kikimores. The bad thing was, all he could see was rocks. The blasts from the bombs had completely collapsed the passage’s ceiling. Rocks filled it from wall to wall, and he didn’t see any way through. On the other hand, that meant the kikimores couldn’t get through, either. Hopefully there was another way out. The dungeons under elven ruins usually had multiple exits. 

Usually.

Geralt lit a torch and assessed his immediate surroundings. To the left was a short corridor ending in a dark archway; to the right the corridor stretched out to the limit of the small circle of light cast by the torch. Time to start exploring.

Thirty minutes later, he’d mapped every bit of the ruins, picking up a silver ring he’d found on a skeleton that had been propped against one wall – _Poor bastard doesn’t need it any more_ – and some cortinarius along the way. The good thing was, he’d found an exit.

The bad thing was, it was a portal.

Geralt retraced his steps one last time, hoping against hope that there was a hidden door he’d missed, or even a weak spot in the walls that would give way to Aard and open onto a concealed room or hallway. Nothing. 

“All right,” he muttered to the air, and returned to the room with the portal. Inside its oval frame it pulsed blue with silver-white swirls; he squinted, but as usual it was frustratingly opaque. No way to tell where it led. Probably it opened out to another part of these ruins. _Hopefully a part of the ruins where there aren’t any kikimores._

He drew his silver sword, took a deep breath, and stepped through.

* * *

The good thing was, there weren’t any kikimores on the other side. The bad thing was, there was something else on the other side, and it didn’t look very happy to see him.

It was a sort of a giant slug with an unnervingly human-like face, and as Geralt’s boots rang on the stone floor it slithered out of the remnants of its cocoon, and hissed.

“You could just tell me where the nearest exit is,” he said. The thing gave no sign that it had understood, not that he was expecting any. Instead it rushed him, which, fortunately, he _was_ expecting. A few quick slashes, and the creature was a bubbling mess of ichor and entrails. Geralt looked around warily, but the thing he’d dispatched seemed to be the only one. Still, he knew he’d better stay alert, and didn’t sheathe his sword.

He looked back over his shoulder. The portal had vanished behind him, as though it had never been there; apparently it was a one-way ride, not that he was planning on going back through, anyway. The walls around him now looked a bit different from the walls he’d left behind: the rocks were more rough-hewn, and the doorways were square or keystone arches rather than the pointy arches typical of elven ruins. The portal had not taken him to another part of the same ruins, then. With luck, he was still in Toussaint. Or at the very least, still on the Continent. He remembered some of the places Avallac’h had taken him through on their way to Tir ná Lia, and shuddered. _At least I can breathe the air._ _Hopefully Roach will head home on her own._

He looked again at the dead thing’s steaming innards. That monster wasn’t anything that he’d seen before, which in itself didn’t mean anything, or so he tried to convince himself. After all, despite nearly a century on the Path, he still encountered unfamiliar monsters every so often. But a knot of unease began to form in Geralt’s gut as he started for the nearest doorway. He’d feel better when he could identify where the portal had brought him.

Lit torches lined the narrow hallway. Not far out of the room he’d left, a flight of stairs went up on the right, and he took it, reasoning that if he was underground – and the place _felt_ underground to him – he’d need to get _up_ to get _out_. At the top of the stairs was another corridor, but though it was wider it looked no more inviting than the one below. To both sides he could see huge tree roots that had encroached into the space, cracking the rock ceilings and the walls. That was a good sign, at least – he wasn’t far below the surface. 

Geralt looked left, then right. Neither direction looked particularly promising. There were water stains and rodent feces in the corners where the walls met the floor, and a pile of bones and tattered, rotting cloth next to one of the massive roots. Shrugging, he started to the right, past the bone pile. 

He’d gone only a few steps past the second set of thick roots when he heard the tiniest whisper of approaching footsteps. Stopping, he let his witcher senses reach out. Three stocky figures – dwarves, maybe – approaching from somewhere ahead of him. (Also: blood on the floor and giant spiders on the other side of the right wall.) Not far ahead, the corridor turned left. He flattened himself against the left wall and crept forward.

The things that came at him were humanoid, but they weren’t dwarves. They looked somewhat like wights or nekkers, but bulkier, with broad jaws full of teeth, and they wore armor and carried weapons. One of them lifted a bow and began to notch an arrow with careful precision. Another ran at him, war-axe raised high and ready to strike. 

No time to oil his sword, but he wouldn’t know what to put on it, anyway. Instead he parried the blow, and landed his own, then twisted so that the arrow speeding at him only glanced off his armor. The wight-thing struck again, and the third one came to join it. Geralt swept his sword in a long arc, felling them both, then looked toward the archer, who had a second arrow ready, and hit him with Aard, knocking him back. The arrow went wide as the archer stumbled into the wall, and Geralt leaped on him – on _it_ – and severed its neck with one stroke.

He checked over the bodies of the creatures that had attacked him. Up close he could see that they were neither wights nor nekkers, but some other sort of ogroid or necrophage. Their blood was peculiarly viscous, and it faintly steamed in the places it had spattered across his armor. Something odd about it, but he couldn’t quite tell what. Their armor was fit to their stocky forms, but otherwise looked little different from any other armor he’d seen, with leather straps and overlapping plate metal.

The question was: should he keep going in the direction he was headed, the direction these things had come from? Or should he retrace his steps and go the other way? The answer was not long in coming. Footsteps from around the corner ahead of him, loud enough that even a non-witcher would have heard them, and an arrow arcing over his shoulder from back towards the stairs. 

_Damned if I do, damned if I don’t._ At least I’ll go down swinging. He took out the ogroid oil and applied it to his silver sword, figuring he had a fifty-fifty chance of having guessed right – _or maybe neither will work, in which case it doesn’t matter_ – cast Quen to give him some protection from the archers, and ran forward.

The creatures came at him, wave after wave, and their bodies piled up around him as he fought with sword and sign. None of them spit venom, as the kikimores had, but they must have had poison on their arrowheads and axe blades, for his vision began to go red, a clear indication of some toxin building up in his bloodstream. It made him weaker than he ought to have been, and his legs began to buckle from the blows. There were too many of them. He wasn’t going to make it.

As he sank to his knees and his vision dimmed, he thought he heard, very faintly, human voices.

* * *

“You should have given him the mercy stroke, not brought him back to camp,” said Morrigan. “Look at his skin. He’s been tainted. Small wonder, considering how many darkspawn bodies were piled on him.”

“I know well enough what the taint does,” said Theron sharply. “You forget I was also tainted. Keeper Marethari was able to slow its effects for some time, but ultimately, that was why I became a Grey Warden.” His eyes traveled over the man on the litter. Despite his white hair, he was not an old man. His scarred, muscular body attested to his vigor. The armor he’d been wearing, and the two fine swords he’d been carrying, said he was a warrior, and the impressive number of dead darkspawn they’d found in the halls around him said he was a talented one. “If we can keep him alive long enough, I will offer him the same chance Duncan offered me.”

Alistair nodded. “Look at that physique! He’d definitely be an asset to the Wardens. I suppose you’ll be wanting me to go to Soldier’s Peak?”

“Yes. Avernus will have what’s needed for the Joining. Take Leliana and Dog, and move quickly. I don’t know how long he’ll have.”

“I am surprised he lived long enough for you to bring him here, but I believe the worst has passed,” Wynne said, shaking her head. “If it were not happening before my eyes, I’d have a hard time believing it, but he’s healing remarkably quickly.”

“Testament to your talent, my dear lady,” said Zevran. 

“No, it’s nothing I’ve done. His body’s healing itself. I’m only helping it along.” She made another gesture with her staff, and a soft light played across the man’s form, then vanished. “But my healing is limited to the wounds he’s taken. I can do nothing about the blight sickness. Look, I think he’s stirring.”

Slowly the white-haired man’s eyelids opened a fraction. Clearly he was being cautious, assessing his surroundings through that slit before committing to actually opening his eyes. _Another point in his favor as a Warden candidate_ , thought Theron approvingly. “It’s all right. You’re among friends.”

The man grunted and tried to sit up, but almost immediately abandoned the attempt, his eyes closing again as he lay back down, his breath harsh and ragged. Frowning, Wynne put her hand on his brow. “Take it easy. You were very nearly dead when we found you, and you’re still very ill.” She looked up at the others. “He’s burning with fever.”

His eyes opened again. They all gasped; they were strange eyes, like those of a cat, and they shone with an unnatural light. He fixed those eyes on Wynne’s and muttered a few nearly inaudible words. 

Wynne bent forward. “What was that?”

The man spoke again, louder this time. It wasn’t the trade tongue, nor was it Tevinter or Elvish, which were the only other languages Theron knew. From the rising tone, though, it was clearly a question.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” said Wynne.

The man’s voice seemed to be gaining strength. He looked from face to face, and said a few more sentences.

“Oh,” said Zevran. “I think – let me see.” He squatted next to the man and spoke slowly. The lines of the man’s face relaxed a little, and he nodded and answered in a stream of quick syllables. “He’s speaking Rivaini, though his accent is atrocious,” Zevran said over his shoulder to the others. “He wants to know where he is, and what happened.”

“Tell him that he is safe,” instructed Theron. “Tell him that the darkspawn he fought have poisoned his blood, and we are trying to heal him.”

Zevran translated, and the man replied. “He wants his bag. Says there’s a draught in there that will help him.”

Morrigan rummaged through the pile of the man’s armor and other effects. “This must be it,” she said, handing a leather sack to Wynne. It contained a number of small bottles fastened against a flap of cloth so that they wouldn’t bang against each other. Wynne held them up one by one until he nodded, then uncorked the bottle he’d indicated and helped him to drink.

He said what must have been _thank you_ in Rivaini, then turned back to Zevran and added something else. “It is a potion named for a golden bird, he says.”

Wynne sniffed the empty flask. “It smells like mead and dandelions.” 

“He’s already looking better,” observed Morrigan. 

Wynne touched the man’s forehead again. He had lain back down, dropping his head back onto the rolled-up cloth that had been placed under his head for a pillow, and closing his eyes. “The fever’s dropped considerably. Zevran, you’ll have to ask him what’s in this golden bird potion. I could use something like this. Health poultices are wonderful for wounds, but the taint’s another matter.”

Morrigan scoffed. “It can’t have healed him from the taint.”

“Oh, I don’t imagine it’s entirely gone. It’s probably something like what the Warden got from his clan’s Keeper, something to slow the spread of poison through the body. But he’s breathing more easily, and that can only be a good thing. Warden, it shouldn’t take Alistair more than five days to go to Soldier’s Peak and come back again. I wouldn’t have said it five minutes ago, but I think this fellow will hold out until then.”

“Excellent. Zevran, you’re the only one here who speaks Rivaini. Would you mind if we put him with you while he recovers?”

Zevran batted his eyes, making everyone else laugh. “You know I would never object to a mysterious and handsome man in my tent.”

“No seduction until he recovers,” Wynne said sternly. “His condition’s improving, but he’s still weak.”

“Naturally, I will do as the healer commands. Besides, seduction is more fun when the other person’s awake.”

“But I’d appreciate it if you could find out more about him. Who he is, what he’s doing here,” added Theron. “Why his eyes are so strange. Now, if you’ll help me carry him in?”

“Sten would be a better choice,” Zevran grumbled, but he lifted his end of the litter with a grunt. The mysterious warrior was tall and solidly-built, and he probably weighed nearly as much as the two of them together, but it wasn’t far to his tent, and they managed to get the man inside and onto a cot without dropping him. “There. Now, heal up, my friend.”

* * *

Geralt lay back and let the foreign words swirl around him as he felt himself lifted and carried, then laid back down. It seemed to him as though he could sense the Golden Oriole rippling through his veins, seeking out every bit of the poison that coursed through him. _Darkspawn_ _poison_ , the elf had said, or at least that was what Geralt thought he’d said. That elf seemed to be the only one of his rescuers that spoke the common speech, though his accent was odd and Geralt had needed to listen carefully in order to understand him. Perhaps he’d misunderstood. The monsters had been similar to one another, but they had not all looked the same; some were taller, some were bulkier. He’d have to find out later what exactly had been meant by _darkspawn_.

The other elf seemed to be the leader of the group, from what Geralt could tell. He looked a bit like one of Iorveth’s warriors, with broad shoulders from wielding a heavy sword, but there had been something strange about him that called out to his witcher senses. Like the mutations Geralt himself had undergone, but different. 

The women, though, were human, one young and one old. The younger one, who had dark hair and an abrupt manner, reminded him of someone he knew, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The older one was clearly a sorceress, as she’d worked some healing magic on him. Probably done it more than once, too; when he’d collapsed under the onslaught of creatures, he had been pretty sure he was dying. _She_ _kept me alive – maybe brought me back from the dead. Better remember to thank her._

He must have slept, for when he opened his eyes again he saw that was in a tent. The flap at the far end of the tent was tied open, and through the gap he saw darkness, with a glow to the side that suggested a campfire. Night, then. He turned his head and saw a cot, and on it the dim silhouette of a sleeping body. He could make out golden hair, and a braid; it was the elf who spoke the common speech, which made sense.

Carefully Geralt assessed himself. He lay on a cot also, his head on a thin pillow and several layers of rough blanket lying on his body. When he shifted his shoulders and clenched and unclenched his fists, it took all his concentration not to scream with the pain. But his arms and fingers had moved, which was a good sign. 

There was a bandage across his shoulder and chest, and something on his head above his right eye. Cautiously he lifted a hand, and found more bandages. His fingers came away sticky, and he brought them under his nose: blood. He could tell his body was working with the aid of his witcher mutations to heal itself, but he’d been hurt badly, losing a lot of blood and being poisoned into the bargain, and it was a slow process.

He probably should just lie there and let his body heal. Unfortunately, his body had other plans – or at least, his bladder did. _That sorceress is not going to be happy with me, but it’s either this or piss all over the cot._ Taking a deep breath, he sat up. _Well, that wasn’t so bad_ , he thought, as he pulled himself to his feet.

 _Guess it really_ was _so bad._

* * *

As a Crow, Zevran had always to be alert for the slightest noise, and so he woke instantly at the smothered gasp of pain. Which is why he was already on his feet when the white-haired stranger fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. “You should not be trying to get up,” he scolded, and then, remembering that the stranger spoke only Rivaini, repeated it again in that language.

“Need to piss,” grunted the man. “Ugh. I feel like shit.”

“You look like shit, too,” said Zevran automatically, helping him to his feet. In truth he couldn’t make out the man’s face in the darkness inside the tent, but from the strain in his voice Zevran was pretty sure that the few hours of sleep the man must have had did not result in a miraculous recovery. “You should get back in bed. I’ll bring you a bottle you can piss in.”

“No. Help me outside.” He leaned heavily on Zevran, who had no choice but to guide him out of the tent and to the spot at the camp’s edge where they’d dug a latrine. “I can lean against that tree.”

“Do you, er. Do you need me to assist?” Not that he would mind getting intimate with this man’s body, though of course he would prefer different circumstances.

The man scoffed. “I’m not that helpless. But don’t go too far off, please.”

“I’ll stay right here. Might as well take the opportunity also, yes?”

When they’d both finished, Zevran took the stranger’s arm again and began helping him back to the tent. “So, my friend. I am Zevran Arainai. What is your name?”

“Geralt. Geralt of Rivia.”

“ _You_ are from Rivain?” He didn’t bother hiding his disbelief. This ‘Geralt’ was too pale-skinned to be Rivaini, and though he spoke the language with fluency, his accent was like nothing Zevran had ever heard in Rivain or Antiva. And then there were those peculiar eyes. They were like a cat’s eyes, really, not a human’s eyes at all. He wondered if the man could, like a cat, see in the dark.

“Not exactly. It’s complicated.” The man suddenly stopped, his eyes riveted on the sky. Zevran followed his gaze. It was a clear night, though the moon was half-full, casting enough light that only the brightest stars were visible, making it easy to pick out the constellations. The Watchful Eye hung above them, Tenebrium and Eluvia to its sides. 

“Tell me, Zevran.” His voice sounded hoarse, and more than a little wary. “Where am I?”

“We are in the Southron Hills, I believe, at the edge of the Brecilian Forest.” The man – Geralt – looked at him with utter incomprehension. “In Ferelden.”

“Ferelden,” repeated Geralt. It sounded as though he were tasting the word for the first time. But surely a Rivaini would know of Ferelden? He looked at the sky again and frowned. “The stars are not familiar.”

“Ferelden is not so far south of Rivain that the stars would be different.”

“Not Rivain, Rivia. Though I was in Toussaint, running from kikimores, when I went through the portal.”

It was Zevran’s turn to be confused. “I confess I only understood about half of what you just said. But I take it you are not Rivaini.”

“If you don’t know what kikimores are, you’re a lucky bastard. Do you know Toussaint?” At Zevran’s shake of the head, he added, “Temeria? Nilfgaard? Anywhere on the continent?”

“Ah, the continent. The continent is called Thedas.”

Geralt considered this for a moment. “Thedas. Never heard of it.”

“Well, that settles it,” said Zevran, as he began moving again, herding Geralt back toward the tent as though he were a wayward halla. “You clearly come from somewhere very far away. Not that I doubted that, considering your eyes. Do all men look like that where you come from?”

“No. It’s from the mutations. I’m a witcher.” He paused, then added, “I suppose you don’t have witchers here.”

“We do not. As far as we know, that is, as I don’t know what they are.” Witchers, mutations, kikimores. It sounded like an interesting place, wherever it was this fellow was from. 

“We’re monster hunters. Trained from the time we’re children. The mutations change us, strengthen us, give us the abilities we need to go up against the most dangerous monsters and kill them. It’s how I earn my coin.”

“Ah, like the Grey Wardens.”

“The Grey Wardens?”

“Our leader is a Grey Warden,” Zevran explained. “Also Alistair. They, too, have special abilities, although as I myself am not a Grey Warden, I do not know much about them. But these abilities help them fight darkspawn and makes them immune to the taint – that is the darkspawn poison that you are suffering from.” He paused, considering. The Warden had told him to elicit information, not to give it. Perhaps it would be best not to tell this man what would happen to him if he did not become a Grey Warden.

They arrived at the tent, and Zevran guided Geralt to the edge of his cot, then helped him lie down. “There, you are all cozy again,” he said, pulling the covers over him. “Please don’t get up again until morning.”

* * *

The next few days passed in a haze. Most of the time Geralt slept, only vaguely aware of the goings-on around him in the camp. The old sorceress came in several times a day to cast her healing spells, and from what Zevran told him, she was amazed that he was recovering as fast as he was. He told Zevran to tell her it was from his witcher mutations, but he only shook his head and said, “Wynne will only want to test you to see what else these mutations do, and I can tell you, friend, you do not want to have a mage treating you like an experiment. Don’t raise your eyebrow at me! She only _looks_ like a saintly grandmother. We’ll let her think her spells are just more effective on you than on others. That will keep her happy.” 

For his part, Geralt definitely wanted to keep her happy. That first morning, after she’d examined him, she’d looked appalled. After a furious back-and-forth with Zevran in their language, she’d handed Geralt a long-necked bottle, pointed to his crotch, and said something for which he had needed no translation. 

So he’d stay in bed. It didn’t bother him as much as he would have thought. The sight of the foreign sky had made it clear that he was far from home. Now that he knew that, he was content to lie in the tent and let Wynne and Zevran take care of him.

“Sten wants to know about your world,” Zevran told him one evening. He’d brought in a plate of venison and greens, which Geralt attacked greedily. He was beginning to get his appetite back, which could only be a good thing. 

“Sten?”

“The Qunari? Large warrior with a large axe. He was at the campfire when we brought you in.”

Over the past few days, Geralt had told Zevran about his adventures in Temeria, Aedirn, and Velen, and about how he’d retired to Toussaint where he’d been given a vineyard – “Though I still dabble in the monster-hunting business, just to keep a hand in. Mostly it’s my daughter Ciri who does the witchering these days.” Now he shook his head. “Don’t remember much about that night. But you can tell him the stories I told you.”

“I did tell him, but he asked about one thing in particular. Sten wants to know, when you go north, does it get warmer or colder?”

“Colder. Kaer Morhen’s in the northern mountains. Damn cold there.”

“He will be delighted to hear that! Well, as delighted as Sten ever gets, which is – actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him even smile. But he has a theory about you.”

“A theory?”

“Oh, yes. You see, here in Thedas it becomes colder as you go to the south. I myself am from Antiva, which is to the north of Ferelden – a warm, pleasant country, not like this miserable place with its snow-covered mountains.” Zevran gave a theatrical shudder. “And then there is the ocean to the north. The Qunari believe there is a land past that, a place that is a mirror of this one, in a sense, on the other half of the globe that is the world. This, he says, is the origin of the race of man. This is the place he thinks you are from.”

“So I’m still on the same world, just a different part of it?”

“If men first came to Thedas from a country on the north side of the globe, they would have landed in Rivain, in the far northeast. It would explain why you speak Rivaini, and why you speak it so badly.” Zevran shrugged. “Though of course as I am an elf rather than a man, the origin of men is not something I’ve thought much about. Actually, I wonder why Sten thinks about these things, since he’s Qunari. But Qunari are inscrutable.”

Whoever this Sten was, he did not come into the tent. Other than Wynne and Zevran, Geralt’s only other visitor was the other elf, the one Zevran called the Grey Warden; his name was Theron, though nobody in the party called him anything other than _Warden_. He asked a lot of questions – about Geralt’s eyes and his strength, about the scars that covered his body, about how he had traveled to the underground warren where they had found him. Geralt answered as best he could, and asked questions of his own.

“So the darkspawn come from these underground places, and attack your people?”

Zevran translated, and the Warden nodded. “Long years go by without any sign of the darkspawn. But now is the time of the Fifth Blight, and the darkspawn are pouring forth in great number to overrun our world. I have been tasked to recruit armies from around Ferelden to combat this threat.”

“Zevran told me you Grey Wardens have been changed in some way that makes you better at fighting these darkspawn. Like my mutations.” He’d explained his mutations earlier, and the Warden had seemed to understand.

The Warden’s face grew somber. “The ceremony is secret. I can not tell you more about it yet.”

“But you think I should become a Warden, like you.”

“This is the only way to prevent the blight sickness from taking your life.” When Zevran had translated this, he said something in their language to the Warden, who nodded. He turned back to Geralt. “That is the best outcome. The worst is that it may turn you into a ghoul.”

“There are ghouls on my world. But they don’t come from darkspawn. We don’t _have_ darkspawn.”

“Do your ghouls also eat the flesh of others?”

“They do,” said Geralt. “But we don’t have Wardens, and we kill them just the same. You don’t even need to be a witcher to kill them, as long as you have a silver sword.”

Zevran frowned as he translated for the Warden. “You use a silver sword on ghouls? Doesn’t it go dull very quickly?”

“That’s why I carry a whetstone. All monsters are susceptible to silver. Necrophages such as ghouls, more than most.”

The Warden and Zevran conferred for a moment, before Zevran turned back to Geralt. “Perhaps we should see about getting an armorer to make us silver swords, then.”

“Might help. So, you’re recruiting an army of Grey Wardens to fight these darkspawn?”

“Not an army of Wardens, just an army. Though the more we have, the more effective we’ll be.”

“You told me your party here has two Wardens. How many are there altogether?”

There was a long pause. “Two.”

His heart sank. _G_ _reat._ “So if I join you, there will be three. This doesn’t sound like favorable odds to me.”

“That’s an increase of half again as many,” said Zevran, grinning. “Pretty good, no?” He translated the exchange for the Warden, who shook his head and said something that wiped the smile off Zevran’s face. He turned back to Geralt.

“He warns you that is not something to be undertaken lightly. It is a death sentence. He only suggests it because you are already under a death sentence, and it is better to live longer and kill darkspawn than to die now from the taint.”

“Understood,” said Geralt. 

The Warden nodded, and left the tent with Zevran, and Geralt lay back on his cot, thinking. He didn’t feel as though he were under a death sentence. Sure, he slept most of the time, but that was what his body needed to heal – and it _was_ healing, thanks to the Golden Oriole, the old sorceress’s spells, and his own mutant abilities. He’d been very close to death, but he’d been close to death before; hell, he’d _been dead_ before, hadn’t he? But he could feel himself getting stronger. He could feel his body purging itself of the poison, this _taint_. And he’d be damned if he’d take on another death sentence after escaping this one. 

Zevran had said that they thought he was from the northern hemisphere of this world, across an ocean. If they had an ocean, they would have ships. 

_If they have ships, I can get back home._

* * *

The Soldier’s Peak party had been gone for six days – longer than expected – when Dog’s joyful barking alerted Theron that they had returned. It was a relief to see them all again; they were his people, under his care and command, and he was always uneasy when sending anyone on a mission without him. Alistair caught his eye as soon as he stepped into the camp and nodded. He’d got the recipe and instructions for the Joining from Avernus, then. It would be good to have a third Grey Warden in their group.

This Geralt of Rivia would make an excellent Warden, he was sure. He’d have to learn the trade tongue, of course, but he seemed to be a capable and intelligent man, and he and Zevran clearly got along well. His knowledge of herbs and alchemy would be very useful. And those mutations...well, Theron had to admit that the idea intrigued him. Apparently Geralt said could see fairly well in the dark, thanks to his cat’s eyes, and Wynne had reported that his innate healing powers were phenomenal. Perhaps they could learn how to give these qualities to others?

“Hope he’s still alive,” said Alistair as he approached Theron’s tent. Dog was already there, headbutting Theron’s thigh with enthusiasm, and Theron’s hand automatically went to rub his ears. Leliana, who was limping slightly, had gone straight to Wynne. “Old Avernus took some convincing, since you weren’t there, but I think he eventually decided that my being a Grey Warden outweighed my being a Templar.”

“Excellent work, thank you.” He took the small leather-wrapped package Alistair handed him. “And yes, he’s alive – and surprisingly hale, considering.”

“Really! Well, that’s a – Maker’s breath, is that _him_?”

Theron turned to look over his shoulder. Geralt and Sten were sparring, using heavy wooden practice swords, and from the looks of things, they were evenly matched. As he watched, Geralt landed a blow on Sten’s thigh that would have felled a tree, but of course Sten just grunted and stepped back. Then Sten swung hard at Geralt, who nimbly dodged under Sten’s arm. Warily they circled each other, their expressions intent and calculating as they each cataloged their opponent’s strengths and weaknesses.

“Should he be doing that?” Alistair asked uncertainly.

“Probably not. Wynne only gave him permission to get out of bed yesterday.” He strode in their direction. “Sten! Don’t kill our guest, please.”

They broke off their match and put down their wooden swords, breathing heavily as they looked over toward the two Wardens. Sten said something to Geralt, who nodded and replied.

“I didn’t know you spoke Rivaini,” said Theron.

“A few words only.”

“Well, that’s all _you_ ever need,” muttered Alistair.

“Can you translate for me?”

Sten looked down at him. “No.”

“Fetch Zevran, then. Please.”

“I do not fetch. That is a task more suited for Dog.”

“Ooh, I like that!” crowed Alistair. “Dog, fetch! I never knew you had a sense of humor, Sten.”

“I do not have a sense of humor. Nevertheless, I shall inform the elf that you have need of him, Warden.”

Geralt had put down his practice sword and taken up a canteen from where it had been sitting on the ground. He took several long drinks, then sprinkled a bit of water onto a cloth and wiped his face. Shrugging, he said something to Theron that was probably along the lines of _that was a good workout_.

Theron studied him. His breathing had returned to normal, and his movements looked smooth and comfortable. He did not look like a man who had been on the glassy verge of death only days before. He did not look ill in the least. In fact….

He turned to Alistair. “Can you sense the taint in him?”

Alistair frowned. “Well. I sense you, of course. Maybe if you step away?”

Theron indicated that Geralt should remain where he was, then moved a few paces back. The tainted blood in him let him sense darkspawn, as like called to like; Alistair’s presence was a pale echo of this impression, and he had to concentrate to become aware of it, as it had long since become part of the usual background noise to him. Theron had noticed the taint in Geralt when they’d first found him in the ruins. But now – now, as much as he strained to detect it, he couldn’t sense any taint at all.

“It’s almost as though he was never tainted,” said Alistair, echoing his thoughts. “But that’s not possible. Is it?”

Before he could answer, a stormy-faced Wynne marched up to Geralt, trailed by Zevran and Sten. “What were you thinking? Zevran! Tell this man that when I said he could exercise to build up his strength, I did not mean _combat practice with Sten_!”

“He seems to be quite recovered,” said Theron.

She turned her glare on him. “He _was_ quite recovered. Now, he’s probably covered in bruises and headed for a relapse. Sit down on that log,” she directed to Geralt, motioning with her hands so that he would have no doubt what was being asked of him.

Geralt obeyed promptly, making Theron smile. He supposed Geralt must be accustomed to Wynne fussing over him by now. She’d patched them all up frequently enough that none of them would never dream of opposing her in matters of health. 

Leliana arrived while Wynne examined Geralt. There was a bandage wrapped around her left calf, but she was no longer limping. “I am sorry that we returned late, Warden. We ran into some bandits on the road.”

“Nothing you couldn’t handle, evidently.”

She smiled. “That is right. The ones who still live are sorry they bothered us.”

The only member of their company that wasn’t there was Morrigan. Theron looked around and, spotting her in the corner of the camp she’d claimed for herself, waved her over to join the rest of them.

“Good, we’re all here. Wynne, is he all right?”

“It doesn’t look like he’s done any permanent damage to himself,” she said, though her lips twisted as though she’d been eating a lemon. “In fact, he’s disgustingly healthy.”

“Can you tell if he still has any of the blight sickness left in him?”

She shook her head. “It’s not something I can diagnose other than by symptoms. Which he doesn’t seem to have – I’ve never before seen anyone throw off the effects of something as serious as the taint. Perhaps he’s naturally immune.”

“Or unnaturally immune. From his mutations, that is.”

“We can only watch and see if he falls ill again. I can’t say, at this point.”

“All right. Zevran, will you tell him, please, that he seems to have recovered from the taint, and so there is no immediate need for him to become a Grey Warden.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “You are more honest than I would be.”

“I know,” said Theron grimly. “Tell him also that I think he would be an asset to our company, whether he chooses to become a Grey Warden or not. I would like him to stay and fight with us. And if Alistair and I are wrong – if he still carries the taint and it threatens to destroy him – we are prepared to take him into the Wardens.”

Zevran turned to Geralt and spoke in Rivaini. Geralt closed his eyes. Then he opened them again and said something to Zevran.

“Well?”

Zevran shook his head. “He says he wants to go home.”

* * *

“What do you mean there aren’t any ships?” asked Geralt. “You have wine and crossbows. You’ve got to have ships.”

“We have ships,” said Zevran. “They sail the Amaranthine Ocean, up and down the eastern coast. But nobody sails the Northern Ocean.”

“What is he saying?” asked the Warden. 

Zevran switched to the trade language. “A few nights ago I told him Sten’s idea, that maybe his land is the one across the Northern Ocean.”

“The birthplace of humans,” said Sten, nodding. “It is what makes the most sense to me, since he speaks the language of Rivain – or perhaps I should say that they speak his language. But it is only an idea, not a certainty.”

“So now he wants to travel to a port, and take a ship home.”

“Nobody sails the Northern Ocean,” scoffed Morrigan.

“That is what I told him.”

“And it is not a certainty,” repeated Sten.

“How did he come here, anyway?” asked Alistair. “Can he return the same way? Not that I want him to go, mind you.”

“He was in a dungeon, running from some kind of insect monster, and he came through what he calls a portal,” said Zevran. It had all sounded quite horrible. He was glad that there were no kikimores here, or at least, that he’d never encountered one.

“From his description, I believe it was an eluvian,” said the Warden.

Morrigan’s eyebrows went up. “An eluvian! In the ruins here? Does he remember where, exactly?”

“We could take him back there, and he could return home,” said Leliana.

Zevran shook his head. “He told me that when he looked back it had disappeared.”

“Eluvians are tricky things,” said the Warden grimly. “There was one in a cave near our clan. It killed my friend and gave me the blight sickness.”

“Oh, right, and that’s why you became a Grey Warden,” said Alistair. 

“So could he return through another eluvian?” asked Leliana. “Not the one that gave you so much trouble, Warden.” She put her hand briefly on the Warden’s shoulder and squeezed it, her smile sympathetic.

“Not that one. Duncan destroyed it. I do not know of others.” He looked at Zevran, who shook his head.

“Nor do I. My mother left our clan before I was born.”

“There may be some volumes of research on eluvians in the Circle Tower,” suggested Wynne. “It’s a different kind of magic, but I’d be surprised if mages haven’t studied them.”

“I really hate to say it,” said Morrigan slowly. “But if he needs an eluvian to return to wherever it is he came from, I know someone who would know where to find one.”

“Who is that?” asked Zevran.

Morrigan sighed. “My mother.”

* * *

Their camp in the Southron Hills was less than a day’s travel from the Korcari Wilds, where the legendary Witch of the Wilds made her home. Morrigan had flatly refused to return to Flemeth’s hut, and Wynne, too, had demurred, so in addition to Zevran, the Warden had asked Alistair and Leliana to come along.

“We could travel on our own,” Zevran told the Warden.

“No. Flemeth knows me – she saved my life after the battle at Ostagar – and she doesn’t know you. And who knows what might lurk along the road?”

As it turned out, darkspawn lurked along the road. They’d had to battle hurlocks and genlocks, and one ogre that had stepped out from behind a stand of trees. Zevran was glad for Leliana’s bow as she picked off darkspawn from a distance, while the two Wardens fought on the front line and he darted around behind their attackers and sunk his daggers into their backs while they were were distracted.

And Geralt – Geralt was astonishing. Zevran almost wished that the Warden had been less honest, so as to keep him in their company, for he fought like a warrior possessed, whirling quickly on his feet, slashing his silver sword down like lightning. Apparently he even knew a few mage’s spells, because when he waved his free hand, the air crackled around him with a strange blue shimmer; when the hurlock he was facing swung his two-handed sword down on his head, there was a noise like breaking rocks, and the hurlock was thrown back, stunned. Geralt then advanced with his own weapon, and the hurlock was soon reduced to a quivering ruin.

“That was brilliant!” said Alistair, after they’d cut down all their attackers. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us? Warden, ask him to stay with us.”

“I asked him back at the camp, as you’ll remember,” said the Warden. “He’s made his decision.”

Zevran nudged Geralt. “They’re impressed,” he said in Rivaini. “Are you certain you want to leave?”

Geralt was silent for a long moment. He ran a cloth down the blade of his sword, cleaning it off. Zevran was glad to see he was careful not to touch the blood. At least he’d learned something about the taint during his convalescence. Finally he said, “Nothing against you, or the others. But I’d rather fight monsters I know. And I’d rather be home with Ciri.”

The two Wardens were grim-faced as they skirted the ruins of Ostagar. “This is where they battled the darkspawn for the first time, and their King fell, murdered by treachery,” whispered Leliana as they trailed in the Wardens’ wake. “They came to Lothering just after, which is when I joined them. The man that had recruited them fell as well. No doubt they think of that time, and it saddens them.”

Zevran translated for Geralt, who was looking about the crumbled walls of the former fortress with a warrior’s appraising eye. 

“Funny how things work that way,” Geralt said. “An assassin kills a king, and all hell breaks loose. I’ve had some experience with that, myself.”

“It is more interesting when the assassin does not kill his target,” murmured Zevran. He glanced toward the Warden, who was resolutely marching toward the edge of what had once been a camp. How different his life would have been had he succeeded! He'd been part of the Warden's company for only a short time, but already he was deeply grateful to whatever chance had caused him to fail at the assassination, and to the Warden for granting him the chance to join him. Perhaps one day the Warden would let Zevran even further into his life. He rather thought he would like that....

Just past the old camp gates they were set upon by wolves, howling and charging at them as though they were being chased by demons. Perhaps they were; these Korcari Wilds were an uncanny place, and Zevran did not enjoy being out here, far from anything that he considered civilization. Maybe if he’d grown up with the Dalish, as the Warden had, instead of in Antiva City, he’d be comfortable in these untamed places. 

They made short work of the wolves, though, between the Wardens’ swords, Leliana’s arrows, and his own daggers – not to mention Geralt, who set the wolves aflame with a gesture, then brought his sword down for the final stroke.

“I think it was this way,” said Alistair, leading them between swampy ponds and precariously-leaning ruins. And then, suddenly, they were there: a modest wooden hut stood before them on rickety stilts, almost invisible among the mossy trees.

“This is the home of a famed sorceress?” asked Geralt. “The sorceresses I know prefer soft beds and castles full of servants.”

Zevran shrugged. “They tell stories of the Witch of the Wilds. I have never met her, though.”

Alistair and the Warden conferred nervously. Finally the Warden stepped up to the door, but before he could knock, it opened. An old woman stood just inside. She smiled.

“Welcome to my home, Grey Warden.”

* * *

Geralt could not take his eyes off the woman. Morrigan’s mother, Flemeth, the Warden had named her. His witcher senses went on high alert the instant the door opened, for despite her unassuming appearance, he could tell that she was a very powerful sorceress indeed. Clearly she was hiding her true nature, though he couldn’t tell why.

She exchanged a few words with the Warden and Alistair, then turned her eyes on him. It was an uncomfortable feeling, being assessed by a sorceress, and though she had none of the beauty of Triss or Yennefer, her gaze was just as unnerving. “The Warden tells me that you arrived from a distant land through an eluvian, and you wish to return home. Do I have that right?”

Geralt started, for her words were not only in the common speech, but were spoken with the cadences of home. After listening to Zevran’s mangled pronunciations for days, he found it strange to hear not just a familiar language, but a familiar way of speaking. “Yeah, that’s right. You know how I can get to the Continent from here? You sound like you’re from Redania.”

“Who I am and where I am from is unimportant. But when I heard what these men had to say, I could easily guess your origin. And you have confirmed my guess.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a witcher, are you not? I can tell from your eyes.”

He nodded.

“If you would return home, I will help you. But say farewell to the Warden and his friends, for you will not see them again.”

He had not spent much time with either Alistair or Leliana, and so that was not a difficult leave-taking. It was harder, though, to say good-bye to the Warden. In the time Geralt had been with his company, he’d grown to appreciate his leadership. He thought maybe that he was who Iorveth might have been, had he not been poisoned by the strife between nations, by the prejudices against non-humans across the Continent. Thedas was no egalitarian paradise – Zevran had told him the elves here who had abandoned their sylvan nomad ways lived in the cities’ slums, and were looked down upon there much as they were in Vizima and Novigrad – but Theron Mahariel was a capable leader of both elves and men. Even the huge Sten followed him unquestioningly. 

Lastly, he took his leave of Zevran, and that was the hardest of all. “Thanks for everything,” he said, clasping Zevran’s arm in a handshake. 

Zevran made a face. “What is this? I thought you liked me!” Shaking off Geralt’s hand, he threw his arms around him and instead hugged him tightly. “You are welcome to share my tent any time, my friend. Safe travels to you.”

Flemeth said something to the Warden, who nodded, waved one more time, and then led his companions out of the hut and into the swampy wilds. The old woman watched until they had disappeared in the distance, then turned back to Geralt. “I can take you to an eluvian which will bring you back to the Continent. You wish to go to Redania?”

“Toussaint. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s trouble enough wherever I send you,” she grumbled, but she led him out of the hut and through a sparse stand of trees to a large clearing. “Stand here,” she said, then walked to the clearing’s center.

Abruptly, a dragon appeared where the old woman had stood. It hunkered back on its haunches and lowered its spiked head to the ground.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Geralt. “I guess that’s my ride.”

* * *

The dragon that was Flemeth did not take him over the ocean, as he’d though she might. Instead they flew toward a high mountain ridge, and landed near what seemed to be an abandoned fortress. It was not a ruin, like the one they’d walked through on their way to Flemeth’s hut, but there were no men in the wide meadow where they landed, no guards on the walls, and the grass grew high and untended. Geralt dismounted and rubbed the feeling back into his legs – it had been cold, high in the air, and it had taken all his energy to cling to the dragon’s back – and the dragon transformed back into a woman.

“Thanks,” he said, eyeing her with new respect. Not just a sorceress, but a rare shape-changer. She looked different now, too; her hair that had been grey was now as white as his own, and the lines on her face had firmed. She was still old, but now she looked as though she knew just how much power she radiated, and he could see, now, how Morrigan resembled her. Again he remembered how when he’d met Morrigan she’d reminded me of someone he’d known, but still, the connection remained elusive. 

He shook his head. It didn’t matter now, when he was so close to home. “Where is this, uh, eluvium? The portal?”

“It is called an eluvian, child, and it is here.” She led the way to a wooden door in an inconspicuous side wall, which she unlocked with a gesture. “Few eluvians remain in this world, and I make it my business to know the location of those which still exist.”

The space on the other side of the door seemed to be a store-room, with crates piled against one wall and a few rusty spears leaning against another. “Move those,” said Flemeth, indicating the crates, and when he had done so, Geralt saw a cloth-covered object behind them. Flemeth pulled off the cloth, revealing a mirror. She muttered a few words, and the reflection in the mirror changed to a murky blue-green swirl.

Geralt stared into its depths. _Looks like the portal that got me here._ _Hope it will get me home._ Out loud he said, “This is it?”

“This is it. It will bring you to the forest on the outskirts of Beauclair.”

“Thank you.” He took a deep breath and prepared to step through.

“One moment,” said Flemeth. “Do you by any chance know a sorceress named Philippa?”

“Philippa Eilhart? Sure. Haven’t seen her in about a year, though.”

“Well, if you do see her, tell her that her mother sends her regards.” Flemeth turned, and stepped back through the doorway.

“Her _mother?_ Wait, what –”

But it was too late. Flemeth was gone. In the sky above the overgrown meadow, a dragon beat its wings as it wheeled in a large arc, then flew toward the horizon.

* * *

On the other side of the portal, it was nighttime. The warm air of Toussaint greeted him, and he took a deep breath. He’d missed the fragrant scent of grapes and flowers, the clear sky with its familiar constellations. As he scanned the stars to orient himself, he spotted the unmistakable lamp-lit towers of Beauclair. _Which means that Corvo Bianco is_ this _way._

Whistling a cheery tune, he turned his steps for home.


End file.
